Lady Henterman's Wardrobe

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Come on, come on,” the driver said.

  “Getting there, blazes,” Helene said, picking up the chair.

  “Let me help you with that,” a well-dressed stranger said, coming up to Helene.

  “He knows who he’s voting for,” she snapped.

  “Not a campaigner, just want to be helpful,” the man said. He lifted up the chair and helped Helene load it in. As she climbed into the tickwagon, the stranger looked at Verci. “You’re the younger Rynax, yes?”

  “Yes,” Verci said cautiously.

  The man clapped his arm in a friendly way, but Verci noted that hint of aggression. “Tell your brother that Major Grieson wants a word.”

  “I’m afraid—” Verci started.

  “He’ll know,” the man said. With a wink, he signaled to the driver, and the wagon started rolling down the street.

  “What was that?” Helene asked.

  “Probably nothing that we’re going to like,” Verci said.

  Chapter 11

  ASTI WAS JUST ABOUT out the door when one of the Bessie’s Boys came running up to the safehouse at an impressive clip. “Where’s the Baker?” the kid asked, gasping for breath.

  “He’s out,” Asti said. “But you know me, hmm?”

  “The Butcher?” the kid wheezed out.

  Asti sighed. That must be Mila’s idea of a joke. “You got something to tell me?”

  The kid took another moment to catch his breath.

  “I got to move, kid. Time is precious.”

  “I ran a long way, man.”

  Asti waved the kid off, walking down the street. The kid kept up with him.

  “This is a thing, man.”

  “Tell me.”

  “So, Miss Bessie wants you to know there’s a shake going down on Junk Avenue.”

  That stopped Asti. “What kind of shake?”

  “Five guys. They were going from shop to shop, hassling them for coin, breaking stuff when they didn’t get paid.”

  “You saw them?”

  “Well, I see the quint of toughs coming up the street, going in each shop. And one of them was the one what gave me this nose, and busted Jede’s teeth . . . so I knew they were the trouble, you grig?” Asti just noticed the kid’s nose was pretty banged up.

  “You already had a tangle with them?”

  “A batch of these new guys. And Scratch Cats. Working together. They came to our hole and cracked our skulls. Miss Bessie was mad about that, and about the shake coming up Junk.”

  “And the bakery?”

  “I brought Miss Bessie to see before they got there. She said she would stop it.”

  Mila would stop five guys? Asti had a hard time believing that. “All right, kid, this is crucial. Did she say to get us, or just to tell us?”

  The kid bit his lip, thinking for a moment. “I think she just said to tell you.”

  “You think?”

  “No, she did.”

  Made sense. In the time it took this kid to run out here, at least a quarter hour had passed. Even if Asti ran full out, it would be far too late for him to do anything for her. He had to trust her. He had her stay in North Seleth because he believed she could handle whatever was going on there. If she needed help, she would have asked.

  “All right.” He had to think about what this meant, but he also needed to get to Henterman Hall, get to work. “Is that all?”

  “Oh, no!” The kid startled. He pulled a note out of his pocket. “She said to give you this as well. But she already had this on her.”

  Asti took the letter. Another piece of mail for him delivered to Kimber’s. He shoved it in his pocket. “All right, head back to the neighborhood. Find Mila, make sure she’s fine. If she’s not, head back out here. Hear?”

  “Heard.” The kid dashed off.

  Asti did the same toward Henterman Hall. He needed to get there quick. Last thing he needed was to get sacked today for being late.

  He made it to Tully, through the gates with a wave, and down the carriageway of the house just as distant church bells rang out the hour. There was a carriage parked in front of the main doors, with several of the house staff standing at attention, including Win in his disguise as Ungar. Asti noticed Mister Ottick was not present for this.

  A well-dressed man was shaking Win’s hand as Asti approached, hoping to make his way around to the work shed before he was really noticed.

  “Ah, Mister Crile,” Canderell said sharply. Asti turned and headed toward the large group.

  “Yes, Mister Canderell, sir?” he asked.

  “His Lordship has returned to the household. It would be ill-mannered to not present you, as you are here.”

  “If you think that’s best, sir,” Asti said. “It isn’t necessary.”

  The well-dressed man came over, a broad grin on his face. Lord Henterman, presumably. He was every inch modern nobility. Smart waistcoat and topcoat, with matching ascot. Probably Turjin silk, by the look of it. The look was completed by a narrow-brimmed hat with a feather in the brim. “What’s this one, now? You have been busy, Canderell.”

  “As the household needs, my Lord,” Canderell said. “This is Mister Crile. He is helping Mister Ottick with the repairs.”

  “Oh, good show, Crile,” Henterman said. He kept up the large smile, but barely looked at Asti. “I’m afraid we’ve given you plenty of work for the next few days. Good show, indeed. Back to it, then. Daylight will burn without us.” Henterman strolled into the house with another smartly dressed man right at his heels. Asti had barely noticed that one.

  Asti wasn’t sure what to make of Henterman, but he hardly seemed the sort who would order the burning of a neighborhood. He seemed far too . . . disengaged. But at the same time, he might be the type to not care what happened, as long as it brought the money in.

  “You heard his Lordship, no standing about,” Canderell said. He clapped his hands for further effect, but Asti was already on the move. He had plans to make the most of today.

  * * *

  Mila didn’t find any of her boys in the warehouse blocks. That was upsetting, since she had told them to be there. They weren’t at the goxie shop either, though the larders had been cleared out. Hopefully Helene wouldn’t be too upset about that.

  She made her way back to the warehouses, taking another pass to look for her boys. No luck. Finally, she decided she had wasted enough of the day, and went to the safehouse. Time to let Missus Holt know what was going on.

  The safehouse doors were locked up, as they should have been, so she was surprised to hear voices when she came in. No one other than Missus Holt was supposed to be around. Perhaps Mister Gin was here—Verci had said something about him helping Missus Holt out with her problems.

  Of course, Mila’s problems were mostly the same problems now.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  “Is that you, dear?” That was Missus Holt, but she never heard Missus Holt sound like that before.

  Mila came out into the main floor of the safehouse, to find Missus Holt holding court at the table with Mila’s boys. Almost all of them—save Conor—were sitting around eating cookies.

  The first thing that came to Mila’s mind was to wonder where the blazes the cookies came from.

  “There you are, Bessie,” Missus Holt said. She was disturbingly sweet. She even got up from the table to meet Mila halfway, kissing her on the cheek like she was a grandmother. “I was wondering when you would get here.”

  “What is happening?” Mila asked.

  “Well, these boys were all around, and once I realized that they were your little crickets, I had to invite them in. And they’ve been very charming.” She led Mila over to the table and sat her at the head with her.

  “You boys all right?” Mila asked.

  “Miss Bessie, you didn’t tell us you
knew the score here in town,” Jede said. He smiled big, despite the teeth knocked out. That didn’t seem to stop him from eating another cookie.

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to know things, pip,” she said. She might as well play along. What had Asti told her about running these boys? “Always be in charge.” That was the first rule. She grabbed a cookie and took a bite. It was pretty damn good. “So she’s been good to you all?”

  “She’s got a lot of knives,” Tarvis said quietly.

  Missus Holt took a bite of her own cookie and pointed to the twins. “I like these two. They remind me of our brothers, when they were that age.”

  Mila couldn’t imagine Asti as a little kid, but now that she was thinking of it, he probably was a lot like Tarvis.

  “Where are these cookies from?” Mila asked.

  “Junk Avenue,” Missus Holt said. Mila must have given her a look, because she added, “Dearest, I can always get into the Junk Avenue Bakery.”

  Mila was about to ask where else Missus Holt could get into when she turned to the boys. “So, now that Miss Bessie is here, let’s talk something serious, all right, boys?”

  “We got trouble in these streets, Miss Bess,” Pikey said.

  “Yeah, I’m aware,” Mila said. “I just chased off five shakers on Junk Avenue, who shook out some coins from several shops.”

  “You did that alone?” Missus Holt asked.

  “Pretty much, though Raych Rynax is nothing to scoff at.”

  “Saints, Asti was right about you.”

  “I suppose he was,” Mila said.

  “All right, boys, this is what Miss Bessie and I need you to do. Any of you know the egg game?”

  The boys all shook their heads.

  “You never taught them the egg game?” She gave Mila a very disapproving look, like she was personally offended by this failure.

  “No one ever taught me the egg game.”

  Missus Holt sighed. “Children today, what will we do? All right, what we’re going to do is play the egg game, but the eggs are all of North Seleth. I see that confused look on your face, Nikey, and I’m gonna explain.”

  “We need to keep one parked outside the bakery,” Mila said.

  “Well, pick one whose face is intact.”

  “Best one was Conor, he ain’t here.”

  “Is he already running to the boys out East?”

  “Probably already back.”

  “Then, fine. The rest of you, since you all look broken and pathetic, you’re all going to make lovely broken eggs.”

  “Thought you said the neighborhood was the eggs.” Peeky was asking.

  “It is. Each of you go out, find a corner. Different corner, each of you. But stick around Bridget, Frost, and Ullen. No farther south for now. When you get there, slump down and make with the tears. Tarvis, you can cry on command, can’t you?”

  Tarvis suddenly burst out a wail of tears that made Mila cover her ears. Then he stopped just as suddenly.

  “That’s real good, Tarvis. Have another cookie.” Tarvis snatched the cookie faster than anything. Missus Holt smiled. “You cry your eyes out until you get a stick pay attention to you. Or anyone who looks fancy.”

  Jede objected. “A stick? We’ll be thrown in Gorminhut!” Mila had heard horror stories about the west side orphanages. As bad as her uncle’s home was, it was better than any of those places.

  “Or Quarrygate!” Enick added.

  “Or the church!” Nikey said this one like it was the worst of all options.

  “You can handle slipping out of those, can’t you, boys? And if anyone gets nicked, we’ll take care, don’t you worry. But when you get asked why you’re crying, you show those bruises and cuts and busted teeth, and you say—” Missus Holt looked to Mila, obviously wanting her to fill in the answer.

  “Treggin’s boys,” Mila said. “Say the name Treggin.”

  “He the one who did this to us?” Peeky asked.

  “Yeah, and he’s gonna get stomped,” Mila said.

  “We’re going to stomp him?”

  “No, dears,” Missus Holt said. “It’s a long game, and today you’re setting up the board.” They all nodded like they understood. Josie gave them one more warm smile. “So all of you, run along.”

  They scampered off, most of them grabbing more cookies before they left.

  “Well,” Missus Holt said once they were alone, her tone dropping like a hammer. “Looks like we’ve got a right proper mess brewing.”

  “That’s why Verci and Asti had me stay back here,” Mila said.

  Missus Holt grumbled. “We shouldn’t be rushing into this Henterman business. I don’t like splitting our attention, especially since we’ve got trouble like this on our stoop. Here is what matters. But if it’s you and me, that’s what it’ll be.”

  “And Pilsen is around, yes?”

  “Pilsen is busy right now,” Missus Holt said, with a tone that indicated there would be no further conversation down that path.

  “And Almer is still around at his shop.”

  “Well, that might prove useful,” Missus Holt said. Mila got the impression she meant anything but that. “As I said, it’s you and me.”

  “I won’t let you down, Missus Holt.”

  “Don’t try to live in my bottom, girl. It’s unseemly. You’re clever and capable, I’ve seen it, and Asti certainly knows it. Now we really will put it to the test. So, Treggin?”

  “That’s a name that keeps popping up. The boys doing the shake responded to it.”

  “Never heard of this Treggin. Which is odd, if he’s actually a player. Possibly someone from out of town or something, thinks this is a spot he can make his own little kingdom.”

  Mila wondered if that sort of thing was common. She imagined there was a whole secret history of the neighborhood buried in Missus Holt’s head.

  “So what do we do next?”

  Missus Holt hobbled over to a cabinet near the kitchen. “Next, you and I switch from milk to wine, and you tell me what you know . . .”

  * * *

  “Where are you going?” A stern feminine voice echoed up the stairwell. Asti turned back around. A matronly woman in a severe dress—likely a lady’s maid, but not necessarily her Ladyship’s primary maid—stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Asti said, laying his accent on a bit thicker. “I’m Mister Crile, perhaps you’ve seen me about? I’m working with Mister Ottick, getting everything in order before the big shindig, as it were.”

  “The new handyman,” the woman said coldly. “I was aware there was one.”

  “Right, so, I was told to give everything in her Ladyship’s quarters, you know, a onceover. Taps in the water closet, hinges in the wardrobe, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any of those.”

  “Begging your illustrious pardon, miss, but it’s more mine than yours to assess that.”

  “How is that, Mister Crile?”

  “Well, I’m sure you would recognize a bad water closet tap, but you might not know when it’s, you know, about to go bad.” Asti knew he was laying the character on a little thickly, but it was the best way to get where he needed to.

  “And that’s your business.”

  “That’s my business, indeed. Very much so.”

  “Very well,” the matron said. “Be about your work, Mister Crile. But do not be disruptive. Her Ladyship will be returning from a luncheon shortly, and she is partial to taking a nap at that time. She would not relish having it disrupted by your. . . . tinkering and such.”

  “Saints forbid, miss—” Asti said expectantly.

  “Missus Heachum.”

  “I will be as the proverbial mouse in the tale of Saint Ilmer, Missus Heachum.”

  “Very good, Mister
Crile,” she said.

  Asti went back up the steps.

  That was a useful encounter, because he now had permission to be up here, even if he had made it up himself. Were he caught by someone else, he could cite that Missus Heachum was aware of his presence and he was doing his job. And now he knew Missus Heachum. At some point he needed to chart out the entire staff, but there was already too much in his head with just the physical layout of the house, and keeping track of being Mister Crile. It had been a long time since he had done any sort of long-term scout while staying in character.

  The three months in New Acoria, with Liora—before Paktphon, before Levtha. That had been a good three months. They pretended being a married couple, creating a perfect cover, and she was an expert at the details. And the forging.

  And the betrayal. That whole time she must have been laying the groundwork for giving him over to the Poasians.

  Asti shoved that to the back of his skull. Not the time.

  The top of the stairs opened up to a grand sitting room. The perfect setting for a lady of status and nobility to have a private tea with her peers—chairs and tables and everything just so. There was a grand window here, but this was not over the study. That would need to be farther to the right.

  Asti went that way, counting his steps, which brought him to the bedroom. A wide sprawling room, with the bed against the far wall, near two sets of fireplaces. The bed faced another grand window, giving a spectacular view of the gardens, the lake, and likely the sunset if the time was right. It was absurdly perfect.

  He went to check the fireplaces. Likely there were sets of flues that connected. Asti closed his eyes and pictured the layout of the floor below. They were above one of the guest rooms.

  He needed another forty steps to the north to be over the study. Counting that out took him to the dressing room. Another bay window, surely to give her Ladyship plenty of natural light to see herself in the mirrors. Vanity was covered in face paints and rouges and perfumes, meticulously arranged. That window would be the one above the study window. It might just be that simple.

  A quick glance told Asti otherwise. This window wasn’t designed to be opened.